Velociraptor sociabilis
by Kryptaria
Summary: or How to Make Sherlock Jealous, Even with Feathers. To John, it was an investment in the future - a way to get Mycroft and therefore the British government on their side. To Sherlock, it was an interminable introduction to jealousy. Part 7 of Intellect and Instincts.


"We should tell Molly."

"We are _not_ telling Molly. Why would you want to do that to her?"

"She has equipment at her lab. It could be useful for analysis."

"She's a nice girl, Sherlock. She doesn't need the trauma of knowing about _us_."

"She's a scientist. She'd _want_ to know."

"Okay, no. Just _no_. Because you do not compliment people that way unless you want something. You already make that poor girl's life —"

John froze, his hand on the door, which was less than a half-inch open. Wondering what he'd sensed, Sherlock sniffed at the air, smelling the home-scents of dust and chemicals and ash and oops, he'd forgotten about that slice of pizza he'd put under the radiator to check its rate of desiccation for that case involving the stolen mass spectrometer at Eton. But under all that was a subtle new thread, a human scent, one woven through with the chemical sting of dry cleaning fluids and the softer scent of high-quality wool, leather polish and expensive cologne, hair product and dye.

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled, baring his teeth. The bastard was in their flat, in their _territory_. And he'd helped himself to tea.

John took a breath and reached one hand back, brushing his fingertips over Sherlock's sleeve. With only that warning, he pushed the door the rest of the way open and went into the living room, calm and collected, a steady presence that pushed back Sherlock's velociraptor-self in a silent reminder that Mycroft was not prey.

Not that his human-self liked Mycroft any better.

But he followed John in and pointedly ignored his brother as he went about putting away his coat and scarf and gloves. John was dealing with Mycroft, which was fine. John was good at playing sociable. He was good at _people,_ which meant Sherlock didn't have to be. One more reason they were perfect for one another.

John had put the shopping down by the kitchen doorway. Once he'd rid himself of his outerwear, Sherlock picked up the bags and carried them into the kitchen. Behind him, he could hear John asking after Mycroft's health. It was the sort of meaningless conversation that Mycroft loved and Sherlock hated, which was more proof that Mycroft wasn't actually a member of the Holmes family but a genetic experiment gone wrong.

Sherlock started unpacking, throwing open cabinet doors to find empty space. Despite what John thought, he did have a system to how he organized the kitchen, one founded on very basic scientific principles. Acids on one shelf, bases on another, no reactive chemicals kept side-by-side (unless that was the point of having them). Liquids on the bottom, powders on top.

As soon as everything was put away, he turned to the jars he'd left out. His latest client had given him a horrid gold tie pin (as if he _ever_ wore ties?) and John had agreed, with almost suspicious cheer, that Sherlock should recreate his experiment with gold dissolution. Happily, he got to work on making three batches of aqua regia of varying strength.

He was completely aware that others had already done this — it wasn't as if aqua regia was _new_ or anything — but the scientific process was simply a means to an end. It helped him think every bit as much as did playing the violin or talking to his skull. The _experiment_ wasn't the point. The mindset was.

Just as he sat down and dropped the tie pin on the scale, he heard Mycroft say, "He is my _brother,_ John. Naturally I'm concerned."

And John — steady, courageous, wonderful John — said, "There's nothing to be concerned about, Mycroft. Didn't we go through this at your house already?"

"Yes, of course. And it's to be expected that I have additional concerns."

Mycroft's tone destroyed all of the warm contentedness that came from shopping with John at a proper chemist's supply and not some ridiculous supermarket or clothing store. Sherlock shoved his chair back and stormed into the living room. "Your concern is noted," he said, walking up behind John's chair and stopping there, because Mycroft was in _his_ chair.

Flicking his eyes up to meet Sherlock's, Mycroft smiled and said, "No need to abandon your chemistry set. John and I can settle this amicably, I'm certain."

"John." Sherlock didn't look at him, but he didn't have to. He was entirely aware of John — his position, his body language, his respiration and pulse. And he didn't have to elaborate further.

"No," John answered quietly, glancing up at him, looking as mild and harmless and friendly as he always did, even when he had a gun in his hand. "He wants to understand. It's no different than how you were."

Hiding his flinch at John's grammar, Sherlock looked over at Mycroft. He was doing a passable job of hiding his surprise, but it wasn't good enough to fool Sherlock. He _still_ didn't understand how the relationship between Sherlock and John had changed, despite what had happened back at the house. Of course, Sherlock himself didn't know what had caused the more dramatic change: the fact that Sherlock and John were no longer consulting detective and assistant-turned-blogger or the kissing.

(It hadn't gone much further than kissing, but Sherlock had quickly come to understand why the whole _planet_ was obsessed with kissing.)

"Right," John said, coming to a decision with his usual military brusqueness. "Where's Mrs. Hudson today?"

"Home," Sherlock said, remembering all the little signs he'd noted and dismissed as irrelevant: coat on the hook, umbrella in the stand, faint smell of baking not from Speedy's, sound of the telly playing the news.

"Fine." John rose, and Mycroft, surprised by the sudden movement, politely stood and set down his teacup. "We'll go to your place, Mycroft."

_"What?"_ Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft was just as startled. "Excuse me?" he asked more politely.

John's brows raised. "You want to know, don't you?" he asked Mycroft.

Wrong-footed, Mycroft stared at John, trying to determine what he was thinking, but John was the embodiment of calm, polite discretion, without a hint of the primordial predator about him. Finally, Mycroft nodded.

"Well, we're not doing this here, with Mrs. Hudson around." Pausing for only one second, John added sharply, "Now, gentlemen. Get your coats."

* * *

Mycroft's London house was neat and modest on the outside. Inside, he'd had an interior decorator furnish the rooms with expensive antiques, imported carpets, and the sort of decor that made Sherlock wish velociraptors could cough up hairballs the way cats did. Even the _air_ was a part of the artful façade, scented as it was with air freshener that was probably meant to smell like something other than sharp chemicals that stung at Sherlock's nose. It had always been that way, even before he'd got used to having the more acute senses of a velociraptor, though his ability to pick up scents had barely been enhanced.

Mycroft's driver hadn't blinked at the request to stop at a butcher's on the way, and Sherlock had delightedly ordered the most expensive cuts of meat — _pounds_ of it. The driver had carried four heavy bags of paper-wrapped fillets and steaks into the house; John had insisted upon helping, because he was courteous like that.

Once the driver was dismissed for the rest of the day, Mycroft played host and took their coats.

"Are we alone? No maid or anyone?" John asked as Mycroft sorted out the coat Sherlock had dumped into his arms.

Mycroft got the Belstaff onto a hanger. "No. It's difficult to find a maid with the security clearance that would be —"

His words ground to a halt, making Sherlock turn back in hopes of seeing John holding Mycroft at gunpoint. No such luck — though for one moment, Sherlock thought that what he saw was equally entertaining, until the realization slithered through his brain that John was _stripping_. In front of _Mycroft_. In the _foyer_.

Entirely unconcerned by the shocking display of immodesty, John handed Mycroft his jumper (Mycroft took it simply because Mother had ingrained in him that playing the proper host was an essential part of western civilization) and said, "Oh, please. It's not as if you two have never seen a naked man before."

Sherlock looked to Mycroft, who was pointedly _not_ looking away from John, who was now working on his button-down shirt, and Sherlock's snarl was less-than-human. He made it one step towards Mycroft, skin itching in that too-tight way that heralded the change, when John's hand caught his shoulder.

"Easy," John said quietly.

Sherlock turned to him. "I'll do this," he said. And in retrospect, he should have offered in the car on the way over, because it was a _fantastic_ idea. John wouldn't have to take off his clothes in front of Mycroft, and if Mycroft got irritating, Sherlock would have his claws at the ready.

John's dark blue eyes seemed to glitter with humor. "I won't even list the reasons why that's a bad idea," he said, grinning. His other hand came up to touch Sherlock's face, thumb brushing over his lips. "I'll do this, and you'll still be human, so you can answer any of his questions."

The unspoken subtext was crystal-clear, and Sherlock grinned back at John, thinking that _this_ had to be love — when two people knew each other so well, when one was willing to sacrifice his dignity for the sake of family, trusting the other to manage any awkward moments. John was a tactician, an expert at planning, and Sherlock was a scientist, an expert at analysis. They complemented each other _perfectly_.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed John, quick and chaste, since there were some things that didn't need to be analyzed by Mycroft. Then he turned and glared at Mycroft, saying, "Go wait in the parlor."

Before Mycroft could protest, John said, "He'll want to watch."

Those words stirred something in Sherlock that he distantly recognized as jealousy. It was less about Mycroft seeing John naked (even though privately Sherlock thought his brother would appreciate the sight a little _too_ much) and more about the danger of an errant kick or bite ending up with Mycroft bleeding on the floor. Sherlock was _not_ having Mycroft in the pack, no matter what.

"Fine. Stand back, Mycroft," Sherlock said, pointing to the far side of the foyer, by the stairs.

Mycroft sighed. "Oh, for goodness' sake."

"It's a bit dangerous," John quickly interrupted before Sherlock could snap. "I'm going to do this as slowly as I can, which hurts like all hell. Come too close and I'll end up spilling your intestines all over the floor."

That made Mycroft go a bit green, but he didn't step back. He looked to Sherlock, asking, "Should you be that close, then?"

"I'll be fine," Sherlock protested.

"Go with him," John said quietly, touching Sherlock's arm one more time before he went back to unbuttoning his shirt. "I really don't want to hurt you, even if it won't be permanent."

"Change normally. There's no need to draw it out —"

"Isn't there?" John asked with a soft laugh. He unbuttoned his cuffs and stripped off the shirt, tossing it onto the foyer table. He bent to pull off his shoes. "I'd really rather only do this once. Just make sure he doesn't film it."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft, and yes, the bastard had been thinking of just that. "Phone," he ordered, holding out his hand.

With another put-upon sigh, Mycroft said, "I won't film —"

_"Phone,"_ Sherlock growled, and had the immense satisfaction of seeing something like fear cross Mycroft's face. It was only for an instant, but even that was a small triumph.

Without another word, Mycroft handed over the phone.

* * *

Sherlock sat on the stairs, with Mycroft standing on the other side of the railing, both of them watching as feathers seemed to grow from nothing, engulfing John's skin as his body contorted unnaturally.

"How long?" Mycroft asked.

"Can be instantaneous, if threatened. As you know," Sherlock added with a smirk. "Generally, two to three minutes."

"Cause of the variance?"

"Not determined." Sherlock sighed at that. It was difficult to conduct a proper study without more test subjects; the change was exhausting, not to mention ridiculously expensive. And Sherlock was _not_ going to let John go back to a diet of rats and cheap cuts of meat, even for the sake of science.

"Mass comparison?"

"Slightly less. I suspect it's to do with the creation of the feathers."

Mycroft shot him a skeptical glance. "Some sort of mass-energy-_feather_ conversion formula?"

"Feathers are keratin," Sherlock said a bit sharply. Mycroft had never been one for science, preferring instead the more ephemeral disciplines of politics and psychology. "And no, they're not."

"Not what?"

Sherlock hid his smile; he loved it when Mycroft failed to follow along with him. "What would be wing-feathers actually aren't," he said, raising an arm to point, though it was hard to single out any feathers right now, the way John was writhing and struggling to change in slow increments, rather than letting it happen all in a rush.

Mycroft hummed thoughtfully. "Cognitive functions?"

"Unimpaired, though there are new instincts with which to contend." Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. "Velociraptors _are_ predators."

Though Mycroft didn't respond verbally, Sherlock saw his pulse beat faster at his throat.

By Sherlock's count, John stretched the change out over a full six minutes before he finally pushed up to his feet. His balance was off and his head hung down, mouth open to draw in deep breaths. Sherlock threw himself off the stairs and was crouched at John's side moments later. John leaned heavily against his shoulder, nudging at Sherlock with his muzzle.

"The change is metabolically taxing," Sherlock said, pointing back at the bags of meat neatly lined up by the hall closet. "He needs food. Bring it here."

For once, Mycroft didn't protest. He actually exerted himself enough to pick up the nearest bag and carry it over. "I'll fetch a plate."

Sherlock knew that John's hiss was just a velociraptor's way of laughing, but it startled Mycroft into flinching back. "You do that," Sherlock said, happy for the excuse of getting rid of Mycroft.

As Mycroft hurried away, John nudged at Sherlock and gave him a scolding sort of look that he was able to read despite the feathers. Sherlock grinned and took the top bundle out of the bag. He flipped it over, ripped off the masking tape, and unfolded the wax paper. "Next he'll be offering a bucket of tea," he said quietly. They'd learned the hard way that velociraptors could only drink by submerging their muzzles, rather than lapping the way a cat or dog might.

John's hiss was almost a snort, and he batted playfully at Sherlock before he delicately snapped up four very expensive cuts of veal, not actually tasting a single one. By the time Mycroft was back with a large silver serving tray, John had gone through two more packages of veal cutlets and was gnawing on a lamb shank.

Mycroft put the tray down, too fascinated to protest the mess on the foyer floor, and crouched warily down at Sherlock's side. "Acuity of senses?"

"Visual hunters," Sherlock answered. "Enhanced nightvision, predatory instincts triggered by motion. Somewhat increased sense of smell, though not by much. Touch is... different — all the feathers," he said, frowning. He couldn't quite find the words to explain how it felt to be covered in feathers.

John finally crunched through the last of the bone and licked at his muzzle. With a soft laugh, Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, stole his handkerchief, and cleaned the blood off John's feathers. John huffed fondly and rolled his eyes but let Sherlock get on with it, probably knowing Sherlock was just doing it to irritate Mycroft.

Finally, Sherlock tossed the handkerchief aside and stood, confident that John was able to maintain his balance, now that he'd eaten. "Let's get out of the foyer," he said, heading right for the front parlour, though he knew Mycroft was probably thinking more in terms of the kitchen or basement. Probably terrified of what John's scythe-claws would do to the carpet. The thought made Sherlock smirk, though he kept his back turned and didn't stop walking until he took his place on the sofa.

John followed, claws politely retracted as far back as possible, minding his tail to keep from knocking over any antiques. He stopped at the coffee table, nudged it with his muzzle, and then looked at Sherlock. Understanding, he sighed and pulled the coffee table out of the way, clearing a velociraptor-sized space in the middle of the room.

Mycroft followed, most likely unhappy about the bloody wax paper and bags of meat in the foyer, though he pushed aside his discontent when he looked back at John. "You said this is a required change during the full moon."

John nodded as Sherlock said, "Yes. It's either a tidal pull type of effect on cells or some sort of neural compulsion, as it _only_ happens when the moon is actually there." He gestured towards the window.

John sighed and gave Sherlock an expressive look. Sherlock rolled his eyes and added, "It's something to do with the horizons and the moon's orbit. John can explain later."

"I'll remind him," Mycroft said unnecessarily. He stopped beside John, rather than sitting down, his body language revealing his sudden, uncharacteristic uncertainty. Sherlock would have enjoyed it, if not for the fact that Mycroft asked, "May I?" and extended a hand towards John's back.

Sherlock bit back his 'no' because John nodded. Unhappily, Sherlock watched Mycroft tentatively feel John's feathers, gaining confidence when John didn't gut him or rip off an arm, justified as he would have been.

"This may be rude to ask, but do you moult?" Mycroft asked as his fingers dug in past the harder outer feathers to the soft down.

John shook his head and hissed, making Mycroft jerk his hand back in surprise. Sherlock smirked maliciously and remained silent until John stopped hissing and turned to glare at him. Disappointed that John wasn't playing along, Sherlock said, "He's laughing at you."

"Pardon?"

"Laughing. The hiss — it's his _laugh,_" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft smiled benevolently at John. "I apologize. The misunderstanding is, of course, only to be expected. I believe humans aren't biologically prepared to be confronted with... well." He gestured eloquently at John before he went back to his examination.

John hissed again, settling down comfortably as if prepared to allow Mycroft to take his time. Sherlock crossed his arms and contented himself with watching intently. The moment Mycroft got inappropriate, he'd once again show his brother just how quick the change could be.

* * *

Hours later, over a delivered meal of spicy Ethiopian cuisine and honey wine, Mycroft asked, "How do you intend to keep this sort of thing quiet? You don't precisely lead a safe life. Surely the physicians at A&E would notice any biological anomalies."

"We don't need A&E," Sherlock said, looking across the table to John.

Still in velociraptor-form, John nodded. With delicate stabs of his fore-claws, he'd picked the cubes of lamb off of his plate, eating each one with neat, quick bites. Now, he extended his forelimbs and worked one claw between his feathers.

"John! No!" Sherlock protested, realizing too late what he was about to do. John stabbed the claw into his own forearm, lips curling back in a silent snarl.

Mycroft half-rose as blood welled up between John's feathers. "What on earth are you doing?" he demanded, snatching at the pile of napkins he'd insisted on having nearby after giving in to Sherlock's demand for Ethiopian cuisine — eaten with fingers rather than proper silverware.

John's sigh was deep and eloquent, attenuated by his elongated throat and the deeper shape of his chest. He growled out what sounded like a sentence, though Sherlock didn't recognize any of it from the vocabulary they'd assembled. He extended his wounded limb towards Mycroft and shook his head when Mycroft offered the handful of napkins.

After one cautious glance in Sherlock's direction, Mycroft cradled John's wrist in one hand and used the other to part the feathers so he could see the wound. Instantly, his concern disappeared, replaced by intense intellectual curiosity. "The wound isn't nearly as large as it should be, given the size of his claw. And —"

"Stop talking as if he can't understand you," Sherlock snapped.

John hissed with amusement.

Mycroft shot Sherlock a hard look before he turned his false, oily smile on John. "I do apologize," he said even though John was hissing even more now. Pressing his lips together, Mycroft fell silent and turned his attention back to the wound.

* * *

"It lasts as long as we choose, except during the full moon," Sherlock said, leaning against the doorway and enjoying the sight of Mycroft playing maid. He'd already brought John's clothing up from the foyer and laid out the pyjamas and dressing gowns he kept for unprepared guests.

For the first time tonight, he was glad John had volunteered to change. With a year of experience under his feathers, John had managed the stairs without a problem. Sherlock probably would have fallen arse-over-tail, giving Mycroft _years_ of ammunition to use against him.

"But neither of you _actually_ does this except when necessary, am I correct?" Mycroft asked as he closed the curtains. "Other than tonight, which I do appreciate," he added more loudly.

"It's safe," Sherlock called to John, who padded silently down the hallway. Mycroft's front parlour was secure from prying eyes thanks to a large strategically-planted hedge. None of them had wanted to take the chance with the upstairs guest bedroom.

"Every time you do this, you're taking an enormous risk," Mycroft insisted.

Sherlock followed John into the bedroom. "Not all of us can be as _safe_ as you," Sherlock said, knowing that both his brother and his flatmate-pack leader-lover would hear _safe_ as _boring_. John looked back over his shoulder and hissed.

Mycroft just sighed. "The biological strain alone is dangerous. The human body surely wasn't meant to..."

"To turn into a dinosaur? Yes, imagine that," Sherlock said dryly. "Fortunately, you may recall John's a physician. He's perfectly capable of judging his own body's ability to withstand physical stress."

"While I trust _John,_ I was more concerned with you, Sherlock. Historically, your judgement has been somewhat compromised."

John hissed even more.

"Don't help," Sherlock complained to John, who affectionately leaned against him, making him stagger. Looking back at Mycroft, Sherlock said, "You can go now."

Always the gracious host, Mycroft nodded and said, "Thank you, John. I do appreciate this. If you need anything else, please help yourself. Otherwise, I'll see you both in the morning."

After John's nod, Mycroft withdrew, closing the door with a quiet click. Sherlock sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, grabbing for John's forelimb, though the bleeding had long since stopped. "I can't believe you _bled_ for him."

John nudged at him and let out a low, comforting rumble before he rested his head on Sherlock's leg. Sherlock parted feathers still damp from washing off the blood, but he couldn't find any sign of the shallow wound. He smoothed the feathers back in place. "Did you eat enough?"

John lifted his head and nodded. He backed up a few steps, tail held carefully out of the way, and then crouched down, preparing to change back. Sherlock watched as John's body shuddered violently, feathers disappearing into flesh. Without Mycroft to observe, there was no reason to prolong the return to human form.

Just under two minutes later, John rose from all fours, stretched, and threw himself face-down on the bed. "God, you've spoiled me," he said, his voice a bit rough from disuse. "That has got to be the best steak I've ever had, even raw."

"Mycroft can afford it." Sherlock rubbed a hand over John's back, still a little overwhelmed that he could touch like this — that John _wanted_ his touch, in fact. "Let me see your arm."

"It's fine," John muttered into the duvet, though he lifted his arm anyway.

There was no scar, not even the slightest mark. Sherlock muttered, "Still, he doesn't deserve that kind of consideration."

"You're being silly. If you don't care that he's your brother, then think of how useful he can be if one of us gets into a bad situation." John pushed up enough to crawl farther onto the bed, twisting to work his way under the duvet. "I'm exhausted, love. Are you staying up?"

"What?" Sherlock asked blankly.

"Are you staying —"

"You said... You called me..."

John grinned lazily at him, a blush creeping over his cheeks. "Yeah," he said in quiet wonder. "I suppose I did."

Almost dizzy with the warm contentment that burst deep in his chest, Sherlock laid down beside John, ignoring the fact that he was still dressed, even wearing his shoes. "Really?" he asked softly. "Do you mean it?"

Because John was smarter than most people, because he preferred looking at situations from every angle (even the tediously obvious ones), he fell silent for a moment — long enough that Sherlock felt a touch of nervousness creep through the ridiculous happiness that filled him. Then John took hold of his hand and turned from his contemplation of the bed canopy, meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"I do."

Sherlock smiled, tightening his fingers around John's hand. "Then is now a good time to tell you I stole Mycroft's credit card?"

John laughed, twisting around to throw his free arm around Sherlock's body, holding him tightly. "No, you git. Now's a good time for you to tell me how _you_ feel."

"I..." Sherlock coughed nervously and gave in to the impulse to bury his face against John's chest, breathing in the safe, _belonging_ feeling of being close to his pack leader.

Suddenly tense, John held Sherlock and said, "It's all right. You don't have to."

"No." Sherlock shook his head, feeling John's stubble catch at his hair. "I mean... I've never — You're _different,_ John. Even before. I've just never..."

"Oh," John said quietly, relaxing again. His hand rubbed circles over Sherlock's back, pulling his suit jacket up so only the thin fabric of his shirt separated their skin. "It's all right, Sherlock."

"No," Sherlock repeated, voice muffled by the duvet. He tugged it down so he could rest his cheek against John's bare chest, at the very edge of the scars from the bullet wound. "I feel... If this _is,_ then I do. I just don't know if it _is_."

John laughed softly, breath huffing over Sherlock's hair. "Well, if it's got you that confused, I'm going to guess it must be."

Unscientific as that analysis was, Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the thought. "Then yes," he said contentedly. "I do, too."


End file.
